Drowning
by mofos
Summary: Theon/Jon slash.


All around him, the wind was howling. Lightning flashed across the night sky, and he stared at the waves tumbling below, their blackness relieved only by the bright splashes of foam.

He swayed on his feet. _Well, father, I may end up food for crabs, just like you, Crow's Eye, and Victarion. You'd like that, wouldn't you?_ He took another step. _A gamble, then. So be it._

The planks of the bridge were so slippery with water, his limbs so heavy with wine, that there could be but one outcome to his gamble: he tripped again._Are you laughing, father?_ Suddenly, strong fingers grasped his arm. Head spinning, he leaned into the warm, solid body. _Asha._

But the person whose hand was steadying him had broader shoulders and harder muscles, and didn't smell of the sea at all. _Ah. The Queen of the Iron Isles has sent me a watchdog._

"I don't need your help, bastard."

"Sure you don't."

The fingers tightened, and Snow was steering him towards the door to the tower. In the darkness, with rain surrounding them, he seemed no more than a faceless shadow. _A shadow from the past, always to haunt me._

Inside, stone and wood muffled the sounds of the raging storm. As they made their way through the dimly-lit corridors, Theon tried to shrug off Snow's hand. That attempt at independence only led to more staggering and further disgrace.

"Fucking nursemaid," he mumbled, as Snow helped him regain his balance.

With him stumbling, and Snow supporting his weight, it took them a while to arrive at his quarters. Nothing fancy about the chamber; it was grim and austere, just like all the other chambers at Pyke. Day and night, a fire was blazing in the hearth, but it could not chase away the chill from the air, or dampness from the walls. Not that those inconveniences should matter; comforts and fripperies were for soft greenlanders, after all.

Theon fumbled with the clasps of his doublet. Undressing, however, proved too arduous a task in his current state. Again, Snow stepped up to lend assistance.

"Look at you," Theon mused, staring at the long fingers, more suited to wielding a sword, that were deftly undoing the fastenings. "Just look at you, Snow. What a good little thrall you make. Watching over your prince, tending to his needs."

Even in the faint light, and with all the liquor dulling his wits, he could tell his barb had missed the mark. Snow's eyes remained cold. "You're not my prince or anything, Greyjoy."

"True," Theon chuckled. "You answer to none but my dear sister."

A barely perceptible tightening of lips. _She's the chink in your armour, isn't she, Snow?_ But that was all the rise Theon got: Snow's hands didn't falter once as they parted the doublet and slid it off Theon's shoulders.

Through the linen shirt, Theon felt Snow's touch much more acutely. And, yes, from the way the grip on his arm constricted, almost to the point of causing pain, it was evident his initial impression was wrong – anger was indeed boiling somewhere underneath the aloofness. Theon smirked to himself. _Still so easy to rile, bastard._

A few wobbly steps, and Theon sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

"My boots. Take them off."

Snow's jaw firmed at the command, but he sank to one knee and grasped Theon's ankle. The boot came off smoothly enough; not sparing Theon a glance, Snow prepared to remove the second one.

"What other things did my sister bid you to do?"

That had the bastard's head jerk up. Theon raised a brow, let lips curve into an insolent leer. _Why not?_ On his knees, black locks damp with rain, Snow looked quite pretty indeed. _And pretty things ought to be taken and used._ Not the one to miss an opportunity to amuse himself at Snow's expense, Theon splayed his legs wider, the movement not leaving much doubt as to what exactly he wanted from the bastard.

"Well?"

Contempt glinted in the dark eyes. "She told me to make sure you ended up in your own bed, and not at the bottom of the sea. Nothing else."

"Pity she doesn't share her toys." He spoke slowly, trying to keep his words from slurring. "Or does she? How are you getting on with Qarl, Snow?"

"Well enough."

"Really? He must like your mouth on his cock, then." Ignoring a hard look from Snow, Theon reached out, traced the collar around Snow's neck. "Don't fool yourself." He tugged, till the leather strap bit into the skin."You're just her prize. She paid the iron price for you and you'll never be anything more than her thrall. Always remember that, bastard."

Snow had no choice but to lift his chin slightly to relieve the discomfort. And yet, though his throat was bared, though he himself was kneeling before Theon, his posture was far from subservient. _Stark blood. More pride than wit._ Was this what drew Asha to the bastard in the first place?

"Better a thrall than a turncloak."

His fingers were still hooked under the collar, so he felt every defiant word vibrate in Snow's throat. It was almost funny, in a way – barely had he thought about that reckless Stark pride, and there it was, as fierce as ever. _Turncloak._

Walls spun around in a mad blur, as he lurched to his feet. Snow rose quickly as well, ready to block  
the punch. Theon swung at him regardless; Snow, however, caught his wrist, gave him a shove. Before he realized what was happening, he was already falling, Snow's body bearing him down onto the bed.

"What now?" He panted when Snow grasped him by the throat. "Are you going to kill me? Do so, and ..."

"Shut up." Snow wedged a knee between his legs, thus preventing any chance of escape or retaliation. "If I wanted you dead … No, if your sister wanted you dead, I'd have just stood by and done nothing while you tumbled off that bridge."

"My sweet sister. How she cares about me," Theon snorted.

"She does." Snow held his gaze. "More than you deserve."

_I know. She and mother both._ The truth stung. What was he anyway? A wastrel who couldn't hold Winterfell, had to leave it behind once the situation got too dire. And it had been Asha who'd actually persuaded him to retreat to Deepwood Motte. _Another debt._ "So she cares about me, and you about her. Such a sad story."

A small tremor ran through Snow's hand. _Chink in your armour, Snow._ "And you think you've learned all there is to this sad tale, yes?" His voice took on a mocking edge. "About being a prisoner at the captor's mercy?"

Theon opened his mouth to retort, but Snow simply squeezed once, trapping the words back in Theon's throat. "No. You don't know anything about me and her, Greyjoy."

Theon swallowed, the apple of his throat moving against Snow's palm. Aye, bards praised Asha's name, her prowess in battle, her wise rule. But there were also people who frowned on some of her more novel ideas. Having the Stark bastard as her thrall was obviously meant to reassure them that, while her thoughts tended to stray in new directions, the Queen respected the old ways, that she was as ruthless as her lord father. Behind closed doors, however …

An image flashed through his mind – entwined bodies, teasing laughter, crown and collar lying forgotten on the floor. Snow leaned over him, read the realization in his eyes. "Yes, it's quite a different story. And it can have more unexpected twists."

"Like what? That she'll tire of you eventually?"

"Perhaps." Here, the hold eased, the fingertips slid down the straining tendons, to the hollow of Theon's throat. "And once I'm no longer bound to her ..." Snow curled his fingers in the collar of Theon's shirt, tugged it aside to reveal a patch of naked skin.

Theon couldn't help but flinch when he felt them brush the collarbone, then drift to the center of his chest. Maddeningly light, the touch lingered, raising goosebumps and making his heart skip a beat. Something akin to hunger flickered in Snow's eyes at that tell-tale stutter. " … You and I will meet again, with swords in our hands." The knee inched upward, dangerously close to Theon's groin. His blood stirred, rushing hot and heavy to his cock, the air between him and Snow suddenly humming with tension. "And I will be the one to kill you. Always remember that, turncloak."

The heat building between them turned to a wall of ice. Abruptly, Snow pushed himself away and stood. _I didn't have a choice,_ Theon wanted to say. What use would it have now, though? He remembered the people in Winterfell, their faces grim and hostile, the disappointment and pity in Maester Luwin's eyes, tears on Rickon's cheeks, Bran looking up at him in confusion. His pride, like a choking fist, kept the words from spilling forth.

"I will be waiting, bastard," he said instead.

Snow paused with his hand on the doorframe, his back rigid. "Good."

_Something to look forward to,_ Theon thought, watching him leave. _Peace for both of us._

Weary, he closed his eyes and listened to the distant rumble of the sea.


End file.
